Azrael
by eldritcher
Summary: Circa 1979 - In which Walburga Black is playing a game she doesn't quite understand, Minerva McGonagall is a rare breed of woman, and Voldemort likes to read Gothic Poe stories.


Summary: Circa 1979 - In which Walburga Black is playing a game she doesn't quite understand, Minerva McGonagall is a rare breed of woman, and Voldemort likes to read Gothic Poe stories.

* * *

1979:

"The Dark Lord sups here tonight," Cygnus told us pompously as he entered the parlour where I had been taking tea with Druella.

I delicately snorted. Druella sent me a scornful glance. It surprised me that we were alive - Cygnus, Orion, Druella and I - we despised each other and poison would have ended our lives if not for our usefulness to each other to court the Dark Lord. Yes, we courted the Dark Lord away from the Malfoys and the Lestranges and the others who sought to have court his favour.

He was a powerful man.

I remembered vividly how it had been, earlier, when he had been an orphan come to Slytherin. He had refused to die or to leave. We had done our utmost to be rid of him. Then, in our Fifth year, we had seen the power flowing through his veins. It would have been foolish to be rid of him after having seen that. We had thought we could court him and please him, and harness the might in his blood to win our games. He had outplayed us all and now we were rabid dogs jousting for his favour while he watched in amusement.

It was folly to remember all of that. He was a cruel man, and if he chanced to find out that I had been contemplating his less than illustrious childhood, he would spare no mercy. I had a son fighting for him, and I had a son fighting against him. He would not touch a hair on my head, but he would make my sons pay for my presumption to remember his poverty-stricken, unwanted past.

Right then, Cygnus and Druella were higher in his favour than my husband and I were, because of our traitorous son who had chosen to ally with Dumbledore. What a waste of Black blood! Sirius was our true born, ruthless and brilliant. He had inherited our finest qualities. Regulus hadn't. Yet, we were left with Regulus and we would have to make do.

I took my leave of Druella and Cygnus, and made my way home.

Grimmauld Place had held better memories once, before Sirius had run away, before Regulus had come back to me horror-struck after doing the Dark Lord's bidding, before our House Elf had been nearly killed by a madman wanting to test his defences against Dumbledore.

Orion was in the library. He always was, these days. Did he seek to escape our present by vaulting into the books that carried on their pages tales of Blacks unconquered? He would not miss me. I made up my mind and touched a Galleon I carried in my purse. I waited for the Galleon to warm again, for acknowledgement. It did. Relieved, I made my way to the Floo.

I detested travelling in this manner, but it was becoming unavoidable. I needed to have tea with Druella to keep an eye on Regulus. I needed to have tea with my contact to keep an eye on my prodigal son.

The Leaky Cauldron was no place for meeting my contact. Neither was one of the more shady shops down Knockturn. Instead, I walked out into Muggle London, hating it tremendously, but considering it poor price to pay for tidings of my son.

I wanted to avoid the jostling of the throng and held my purse tightly. I was surprised to see the streets nigh deserted. What had happened? For a dark moment, I wondered if the war in the Wizarding World had spilled over? Were the Muggles all exterminated? Was the Dark Lord's purpose done? Could we now start plotting to be rid of him? Would I have my sons back?

"Winny!" a voice, familiar, hailed me, from one of the alleys I had passed.

I suppressed the desire to kill the woman and instead made my way to the alley. It was a name we had agreed on. My own was unsafe here.

"Miss McGonagall," I said, enjoying the moment of cruelty. Dumbledore had not married her.

Her lips thinned. I suppressed a sigh and the urge to apologise. I needed tidings of my son. I would put up with her.

"Where are the Muggles?" I asked her instead. Perhaps that might take her mind off my stab.

She looked wan and old. Her hair was up in a strict bun, but I could see wisps of grey in the strands that escaped her bonnet. Her form was hunched and she looked thinner than she had the last time I had seen her. I felt a prickle of sympathy for the woman. I had my children. What did she have? Why was she fighting a war that held nothing at the end for her?

"I should be worried by your interest in them," she told me, her eyes taking on that glint of suspicion.

After a moment, she muttered, "It is an industrial crisis. They are on strike. It is very bad."

"How bad?" I asked curiously. If the Wizarding World went on strike, would their lot improve?

"There are bodies rotting in Liverpool because the gravediggers are on strike. They are calling this the winter of discontent."

The winter of discontent. It had been a hard winter for us too.

The Muggle World was vicious. If Tom Riddle had no magic, would he have died? His mother had died on the streets of London, it was rumoured.

"Sirius is reckless," my companion said suddenly.

She looked concerned. This was something that took me by surprise despite the fact that it was not the first time I had seen it. Why would she be concerned about someone that was not of her blood?

"I heard about his duel with Snivellus," I muttered. "He is talented enough to go up against the likes of that half-blood. I am not worried."

"Mr. Snape would be best served by leaving all of this behind and making off to the South of France. It is not as if any of you appreciate his skill though he is loyal," McGonagall said disapprovingly.

She had taken a shine to that ugly boy. I should have known. She was a bleeding heart and liked to act the mother to creatures as unworthy as the werewolf. It was understandable. It was not as if she would have any children of her own. What a fall for the fair and brilliant Minerva McGonagall, the pride of Gryffindor! Moody would still have her, it was said, but she would have none of him as she continued her ill-fated venture to capture Albus Dumbledore's heart.

"He speaks of you in poor taste," she said, abruptly, torn between revulsion and sympathy.

Minerva McGonagall had it in her to be sympathetic towards even me. She was a strange creature.

"Snape?" I asked, confused.

"No, your son," she said unhappily.

I laughed. She looked worried. Then I told her, "As long as he is alive and well enough to speak of me in poor taste, I don't give a damn."

She shrugged and pulled her bonnet strings tighter (everything about her was black and tight and uncomfortable). I had, at first, offered to give her gold in exchange for information about my son. She had looked outraged, then she had smiled a sad smile, and declined my offer courteously.

"Why did you decline the gold?" I asked her now. "You could have used it for something noble."

She liked noble ventures, after all. Noble ventures always required gold.

She looked perplexed by the change of subject, but she replied, "I am well off. I have no need for gold. My brother died early in the war and our fortune reverted to us."

Damocles McGonagall. I remembered the man. He had been charming and handsome with his Scottish ways. I remembered him dying. He had died slowly. Our Lord had taken his life with much pleasure and much procrastination. He had been cruel.

"He was burned alive," I said quietly. "Then we were asked to gather the ashes, weigh them, and send them to you with an equal weight of Galleons."

She sighed queerly, torn between grief and wrath. She was a strong woman, though, and quickly pulled herself together. Then she looked at me with eyes bright and hopeful, and asked me fearfully, "Did he beg before he died?"

He had. He had begged for death. The Dark Lord had not given it until he had begged for three days. When screams and delirious rants of the wretched man had reached Abraxas Malfoy's ears, he had finally put his foot down and then the Dark Lord had given the prisoner death. It had been unique. The Dark Lord preferred clean duels and unmarked graves to dispose of corpses. Damocles McGonagall had been the only one who had wrought on him this cruelty at the Dark Lord's hands.

Here stood Minerva McGonagall, perhaps fighting this war in her brother's memory, propelled by memories of his bravery.

"He did not beg," I told her, the lie coming easily and sweetly from my lips. "He died proud and upright, as only a man like him could."

She looked as if I had given her all the gold in the Black vaults. She nodded tremulously and mopped her face with a dainty handkerchief.

"I knew Riddle had lied," she whispered. "Riddle told me that Damocles had begged."

The Dark Lord had many faults. He did not lie to women he admired. He admired Minerva McGonagall and there was no malice in his tone to be found when we discussed her at war strategy meetings. He was fond of her in a way that he was fond of old books treated dismally and left forgotten to gather dust. I suspected that he would have been a book-collector had he been a Muggle. He loved his precious books almost as much as he loved his wand.

"He lies," I said blandly. "You knew your brother."

"But he who deals out death to you knows more about you than your closest intimate ever could," the Dark Lord had taunted many a dying man, as he stood suavely with wand outstretched and pinpointed at his defeated opponent after a duel.

* * *

I arrayed myself in finery for the dinner at Druella's.

Once I would have done so to attract the Dark Lord. I had fancied him even he had been an orphan. I had fancied keeping the boy as a personal slave. I had wanted him to lick my shoes in return for gold and books. I had wanted him to strip at my command and to bend gracefully to take a whipping from me. I had wanted him broken and slavish. I had wanted him craving my attention and cruelty. I was a Black, and I knew I would only marry a Black. That did not mean I could not keep the orphan around to toy with until his looks had faded.

"You lucky dog," I had told Abraxas in 1943 when I had seen Riddle seeking his attention deliberately.

Abraxas had looked offended. Then he had said quietly, "Perhaps it is for the best, Walburga. He would be the death of you if he knew what you wanted him for."

"What I _want_ him for," I had corrected him. "The boy has no connections. After Hogwarts, the Blacks can pave his way to a comfortable Ministry position much faster than you can."

I had seen Riddle's power. I had wanted him under my Cruciatus, naked and begging, helpless as he screamed and thrashed. I had wanted him to enjoy it and to beg me for it.

Abraxas had shrugged and changed the subject. Riddle did not come to the Blacks until he had conquered enough to make us scream under his wand. He had played us all. I had learned to live with his sarcastic compliments about my beauty after that.

"You are aging well, Walburga," he said that evening, kissing my hand courteously.

I was not aging well. It was not only Minerva McGonagall who was aging badly in this war. The dinner was pleasant. Druella was a good hostess and her table lacked nothing. The Dark Lord was in an exceptionally charming mood. He paid us compliments, commented on how skilled Regulus was, and gently changed the subject each time the war came up in conversation.

"You are preoccupied," he told me, after the dinner, when we had retired to the drawing room to enjoy Cygnus's port.

He had chosen to sit beside me. If I had been younger, I would have interpreted this to mean he craved my whip. I knew better now. He wanted to cajole me to divulge something he desired to hear.

"Not at all, my Lord," I demurred.

"Dear Walburga, we have known each other long enough for you to dispense with titles," he said softly.

Cygnus and Orion had wandered into the parlour. Druella sat across us, looking worried. For all her hatred, she did not want me dead, at least not until our children were safe.

It was a test. Would I dare call him by a name he hated? Would I dare call him the name he had given himself?

"Tell me, how is Miss McGonagall keeping these days?" he asked me, sounding as if he was merely catching up on gossip. "I haven't seen her in a while."

"Stay out of my mind!" I barked, my temper overrunning my good sense.

Druella made a distressed exclamation. The Dark Lord waved it away and took my hands in his. He leaned close, close enough to kiss me, and I closed my eyes to keep my thoughts away from his questing mind.

"Walburga, Walburga, what causes you fear?" he whispered. "Have I not taken your faithful son as my own? Have I not raised him high in my ranks and given him command in the field? Have I not stayed my wrath and refrained from harming your prodigal? Have I not been merciful to you and yours?"

I did not reply. Was he going to kill me for treason? Druella looked as horrified as I felt. Our husbands were close, but they could not keep us safe from him, just as we could not keep our children safe.

"Ah, but it gives me no pleasure to speak of wartime with such fair women," he said and took a slim scroll from his pocket. "Allow me to make up for my churlishness, ladies. I will read to you a fascinating tale I had come across in the Americas on my last journey thither. It is by a Muggle, but I hope you can forgive that taint. There is magic in the tale."

He wanted to read a story to us.

"The tale is called Metzengerstein," he told us. "It was written by Edgar Poe, who had a sad and miserable life, but is renowned after death for his writing. Allow me to begin."

"Horror and fatality have been stalking aboard in all ages," he began, his voice clear as it carried to us.

He did have a voice that was sweet even when it commanded death. Snape had once called it an angelic voice. Snape was Muggle enough to believe in angels and devils.

_"__The families of Berlifitzing and Metzengerstein had been at variance for centuries. Never, before, were two houses so illustrious mutually embittered by hostility so deadly."_

Would this war continue for years? Would we keep dying one by one as we fought for the Dark Lord and for Dumbledore? Would Minerva McGonagall and I continue as pawns on either side, embittered and broken?

_"__Indeed, at the era of this history, it was remarked by an old crone of haggard, and sinister appearance, the fire and water might sooner mingle, than a Berlifitzing clasp the hand of a Metzengerstein. The origin of this enmity seems to be found in the words of an ancient prophecy."_

There were rumours of a prophecy child destined to kill the Dark Lord. Regulus had sounded cautiously hopeful when he had told me of the prophecy the last time I had seen him. I met Druella's gaze. What was this about?

The Dark Lord continued reading to us. He read to us of the young, self-willed, heartless and impetuous Frederick, whose mother had died of tuberculosis, whose father had died under peculiar circumstances. The Dark Lord's mother had died on the streets of London. It was said that the Dark Lord's father had died by his son's wand.

_"__Frederick's behaviour out-heroded Herod, and fairly surpassed the expectations of his most enthusiastic admirers." _

The Dark Lord looked up from his scroll and told us, "Herod was a King of Jews in old Judea. Muggle history, I am afraid."

"What did he do?" Druella asked reluctantly.

"He killed babes newborn taken from their mothers' bosoms," the Dark Lord replied. Then he bent his head and continued reading to us.

_"__Shameful debaucheries - flagrant treacheries - unheard-of atrocities, gave his trembling vassals quickly to understand, that no servile submission on their part - no punctilios of conscience of his own were, thenceforward, to prove any protection against the bloodthirsty and remorseless fangs of a petty Caligula."_

He looked up again and took my hand in his, and smiled. I was trembling.

"You see, Walburga, your son has been inconsiderate enough to trespass somewhere sacred to me," he told me softly.

I knew, from the dark malice in his eyes, that Regulus was dead. Sirius it could not be. Minerva McGonagall would not have hesitated to deliver me tidings of his loss otherwise.

"The Blacks are temperamental and while they have their uses, I suspect it is time to curtail your involvement in this war," he mused.

Druella had risen to her feet, her wand aloft but wavering, her fearful eyes cast towards the parlour, as if beseeching her husband to come to us.

"Do temper your fear, Druella," the Dark Lord said, and waved his wand. Druella fell, like a puppet cut off its strings, to the carpeted floor with a soft thud.

I waited for my death. Snape had once talked of Azrael, the Angel of Death, a being that would be the last to die and one that dealt out death to all the men on this earth one by one. Regulus had loved Snape's stories about his Muggle religion. Regulus.

"You have enjoyed in your private musings the image of me broken at your hands and whims, haven't you?" The Dark Lord asked me. "I had known. Had you thought I wouldn't?"

"Abraxas would have told you to stay your hand, you bastard" I barked, furious and helpless.

"Abraxas is dead," he said calmly. "He is dead and we both know that you had long wanted him dead."

I would die. I wanted to spare no vitriol nursed deep in my heart for him over the years.

"Walburga!" exclaimed my husband, rushing into the room with Cygnus. Cygnus knelt beside his dead wife, horrified. My husband came to me, caught my wrist and pulled me up. He shoved me behind him as if to protect me.

"Dear me, Orion, she wouldn't do the same for you," the Dark Lord remarked, still seated.

"She is the mother of my children," Orion said furiously. The Dark Lord waved his hand lazily and Orion toppled.

Orion Black had loved his children. In his own way, he had loved me too. He had never strayed. I heard a scream of rage, and then Cygnus fell silent.

"Sit down, Walburga," the Dark Lord commanded, as I stood there waiting for my death.

"No," I whispered, alone in a room in my family's home with corpses strewn about our feet.

"Oh, but you must," the Dark Lord said, waving his hand and forcing me to take a seat by him. He set his wand on the side-table, shook his scroll and returned to reading.

_"__The stables of the Castle Berlifitzing were discovered to be on fire - and the neighbourhood unanimously added the crime of the incendiary, to the already frightful list of Frederick's misdemeanours."_

I screamed and jumped from my seat to choke him. He had not expected a physical attack, so he was taken aback with shock for a moment, before he began trying to repel me. My nails clawed his face bloody, my teeth took a chunk of his cheek and he was left panting and furious by the time he had managed to throw me off.

"I am leaving you here," he said coldly. "I will be back again soon, with the remains of your prodigal son. I will not kill you. I want to see you raving mad and locked in this mausoleum of Blacks. I have always wanted to see that."

* * *

Later, Phineas's portrait told me that Minerva McGonagall had been the one to find me cradling my husband's corpse and weeping quietly. She took me to St. Mungo's and there I was for a few months, or perhaps years. I cannot remember. She visited when she could, trying to cheer me up with tales of Sirius's exploits . She told me, later, that she had paid for the funerals of my family. Sirius had not attended, being the spiteful son of a spiteful woman.

"Narcissa wrote to me," she told me. "She would like to visit you."

So Narcissa came, and read to me on long winter evenings tales of Beedle the Bard. She made conversation though I never replied. Sometimes, she would just sit by my side and weep. I wondered whom she wept for. Did she weep for the dead? Did she weep for the mad?

Then Minerva McGonagall came to me, tired and sad, and told me of the tidings of the Dark Lord's defeat. She did not look ecstatic. She told me that Dumbledore did not believe him gone for good. She implored me to assist them with any information that might aid ending him for good. I was as useless to that end as I had been useless to protect my children. Then she told me, grieving, about the tale of Sirius the traitor.

For the first time, I found in me words to speak.

"Sirius is a Black," I rasped. "Treachery is not in his blood."

She asked me if I could provide any testimony to save him from Azkaban. I knew nothing. Who would listen to a raving madwoman of the infamous Black family claiming that her son was incapable of treachery? Narcissa had already given testimony and it had been waived to be of little use. Dumbledore had tried himself. The new Ministry wanted to persecute anyone allied with the Dark Lord. Narcissa had told me that only the reserves of gold that Lucius had inherited and the goodwill many bore the dead Abraxas had saved them from Azkaban.

I had begged McGonagall to make free with the Black gold to buy my son out of Azkaban. She had sighed and told me that he would rather die in Azkaban than have anything to do with his family gold. What a spiteful child he was, and little wonder given the womb and seed he had been born of.

I begged McGonagall for a last kindness in 1985. She pulled strings and had me discharged from St. Mungo's and taken home, to Grimmauld.

Riddle was not here to see what he had wanted to see. He was not here to see me driven mad and left alone in the Black mausoleum. He had been dealt defeat by the prophecy child. Perhaps he still lingered, and would be the last to die, as Snape's Angel of Death was in the story.

"I am only an owl away," Minerva McGonagall murmured as she saw me to the tomb where I chose to be buried alive.

I gave her the only thing I could. I said, with all the dignity I could muster, "Thank you, Minerva."

It was the first time I had called her by that name. I had taken pleasure in the cruelty of reminding her of her unwed status as the mistress of a man who pined after a monster. She had still done me only kindness. She smiled, and it was a sad smile.

"Miss McGonagall and her winter-touched smile," Riddle had once said thoughtfully when we had spoken of her at a meeting.

We had all been touched by the winter he had brought to us. The winter of discontent, as the Muggles had called 1979.

In a house as barren as my womb, I waited to die.

* * *

_Metzengerstein_ - a short-story by Edgar Allen Poe

_Azrael_ - the Angel of Death in many religions, which is mentioned in the Poe short story.

1979 - remembered for a financial crisis in Britain, called the Winter of Discontent

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